Dark Paradise
by Michy Drarry Shipper
Summary: "It would be heaven, if only he was really here with her. It was just them in that cold, cold cell, except it wasn't really. It was just her. And so it was hell. " For Jess.


**Disclaimer:** Don't own Harry Potter.

**Rating: **M

**Trigger Warnings for: **Child sexual abuse, implied dub/non-con, Stockholm Syndrome, eating disorder, brief mention of implied incest

**Dedication:** Written for the amazingly talented and beautiful Jess, aka autumn midnights, as part of the _2014 Gift Giving Extravanganza. _One of the options she gave was a dark, Bellatrix-centric fic, and this came to me, so I hope it delivers.

**Also:** Entered in the Star Challenge for Bellatrix.

**A/N: **Dark themes, please proceed with caution.

* * *

It would be heaven, if only he was really here with her. It was just them in that cold, cold cell, except it wasn't, really. It was just her. And so it was hell.

She had been there so long. There was no reliable way to tell how much time had passed. When she scratched into the filthy stone walls with her torn nails, it was to write promises to him, the promises that pulsed through her with every heart-beat, not to count the days.

The other prisoners were people she had known, and they called to each other, sometimes. Sirius was her favourite. Their cells were close together. She would hiss his name and at first, he'd ignore her. She had fun seeing how long it took to crack him. It was usually after she'd invoked the name of his precious blood traitor friend or his Mudblood bitch. He'd scream and bang against the bars and she'd laugh until her throat was raw and her stomach ached.

The dementors liked it too. They would swoop past, breaths whistling. She'd drop to the floor, peeking through her hair at their dark, wispy forms. Sirius, he would cry, and she would curl up, listening to the soothing sound until they came for her.

* * *

Fourteen. Pinned to the wall like a mounted butterfly, she bites her tongue. A hard thrust and she tastes blood.

* * *

She hadn't seen the sky for a long time. She knew when it was day, because the sun slipped through cracks, painting everything lighter. She didn't much like it, because why would she have wanted to see this ugly place in the light of day?

It was not the sun that she craved, anyway. Not the blue, nor the clouds.

It was the stars. She was a star and she missed getting lost in the heavens.

* * *

Six. Her father is in a guest drawing room, the one with the aqua walls, and a chandelier. It's a pretty room. Uncle Orion is there too, and another man she has never seen before. She is supposed to be asleep, but she isn't tired. She is behind a curtain, and she peeks her head out as much as she dares. She isn't very worried, because they are all deep in conversation in their ring of armchairs, droning on about boring things that make her yawn, but she has to be careful anyway, because Father will be extremely angry if he finds her.

The man she doesn't know is apparently called Riddle. She nearly giggles at that. _Riddle_. Like a puzzle. Like a walking question mark. She wishes he would turn around so that she can see his face. And like magic, he does turn around. He stands up and paces the length of the room silently, shaking a glass of grown up drink around in his hand. His movements are so smooth, flowing like water. Not even her father has the same aura of innate authority. Her breath catches, as his eyes lock onto her. They are black, familiar in way she doesn't understand. But after a moment that seems likes eternity, he gives a small smile and sits back down without a word.

* * *

They were fed in the middle of the day. A tray of indistinguishable greenery and muck would materialise in the middle of the cell and stay there for an hour, before disappearing again, as predictable as the dementor rounds. Hers would still be full at the end of the hour, more often than not.

Water came the same way. The mug was filled every hour during the day, twice in the hour before sundown, but not at all overnight. She liked the water better. She sat against the bars, imagining them to be the stiff back of the chairs where she used to live, and the water was a chalice overflowing with fine wine. She sipped it with her eyes closed.

* * *

Twelve. She sees her own wide eyes reflected in his and her head spins. _Stars in the night sky_. Fingers like ice run down her neck and she can't breathe. She doesn't know what to do. He isn't her betrothed, but she knows many of her relatives do... things with other people before they are married. Sometimes even after they marry. And it's okay, as long as they keep it secret.

It's their secret.

* * *

It was bitingly cold at night. There was a mat on the ground, a blanket and a pillow. The feel of the fabric on her skin burnt and the nights when she tried to sleep under the sheets were the only times she just might have cried.

* * *

Eighteen. Rodolphus seems to be just as _thrilled_ to be here as her. He disrobes awkwardly and climbs into the bed. She strips efficiently and lays on top of the sheets, staring expressionlessly at the ceiling. Her new husband coughs and she stays silent. He rubs her bare shoulder and she flinches.

"Hurry up," she hisses.

He seems to finally understand that she's not about to move anytime soon, so with a sigh, he straddles her. He flounders around, at a loss, so she decides to speed the process up by reminding him that his brother is in a private suite on the floor below. It's over quickly after that, and he slips out of the room. The door clicks, she hears his footsteps fade and she is alone.

* * *

Nights were always lively. She could expect to be woken several times on any given night by screams. Usually the screams of the other prisoners. Voice hoarse, she would screech at them to be a little _louder_.

And when it was quiet, it wasn't really, because they would talk in their sleep, too. Voices carried better in the dark.

* * *

Fifteen. She slips out of the guest room, stumbling. She grips the baluster, and staggers towards the stairs. Each step down makes her wince, but she is quiet enough not to disturb the portraits. Past Narcissa's room... But before she can get through her door, Andromeda steps out of hers and marches towards her, hands on hips.

"Where have you been?" her sister whispers furiously.

"Mind your own business," she spits, shoving her out of the way.

Andromeda grabs her arm and spins her around. "I _know_, alright? And you know what? You are disgusting. You _disgust_ me."

She's pushed into the door, and Andromeda stomps back into her room.

* * *

Her blood didn't come very often after being imprisoned. She mused that it was probably because she was so thin now, and the thought made her smile. She lifted her shirt and ran her fingers down her chest, catching every rib.

He would be impressed when he came for her.

* * *

Thirteen. She is sleeping dreamlessly when the door opens. The draught wakes her. She sits up as he sweeps into the room. He closes the door with a wave of his hand and the lock clicks. He snaps his fingers, and a ball of light appears in his hand, casting the room in a green glow. Shapes swim on the wall, as he approaches the bed. She is frozen, the light he carries hypnotic. She thinks she knows what he wants…

She is scared. What if she messes up? Will he tell her parents? Will she be disinherited?

"Bellatrix," he purrs.

And she is so very confused. He's never called her by her given name before.

"Y-yes, my Lord?" She whispers, breathing shallow, hands shaking as she grips the bed sheet.

"Are you not happy to see me?"

She swallows. "I am happy to see you, my Lord," she says.

He is so close, sitting on the edge of the bed, and his face is inches from hers, ethereal in the strange light.

"Then prove it."

"M-my Lord?"

"Remove your clothes, Bellatrix."

She does. She does whatever she is told.

* * *

She was his most faithful servant. She knew that he would come for her one day, and she told the other prisoners so proudly.

And their jeers washed right over her, because they wouldn't be praised like she would be when he returned. They would suffer for their disloyalty.

* * *

Nineteen. He is so very powerful. When they sit at a long table to meet, white masks firmly in place, even those at the opposite end must feel the power rolling off him in intoxicating waves. She had thought that he only wanted her for _private_ meetings, but he insisted that she come along to these special meetings, too. He vows to cleanse their world, and his words ring like reverberating crystal in her ears. He wants their help, her help. And she is only too eager.

At the end of her first meeting, she holds out her arm. She is branded, forever marked as _his_.

* * *

One night, it was not the screams that woke her. No. It was a searing pain in her skin, shooting through her arm. The other marked prisoners felt it too, and the air was filled with shrieks.

He was back.

* * *

Twenty. Pain is good. Inflicting pain gives her a high. She understands why he likes it. She realises he's been training her for years. Helping her become stronger, more ruthless, more dangerous.

Everything makes sense with him, and she has purpose. He keeps her in orbit.

And the only pain she can't endure is the thought of living without him.

* * *

He was different, but unmistakable. He still spoke like liquid gold and moved like a serpent.

And if his slippery skin and red eyes unnerved her, she didn't show it, as she knelt before him for the first time in fourteen years.

It was war and tensions were high, as everyone chose sides.

She was by his side. It was heaven.

* * *

**A/N:** Reviews and feedback always appreciated :)


End file.
